


Nothing I Can Say

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Fidelis et Fortis [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Political Campaigns, Scandal, none of that, this sounds a lot like an infidelity plot from the tags but absolutely not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: Jean Treville has never expected he would be so happy in his middle age. He's in a committed relationship with the man he's loved since university, also known as the newly-elected Prime Minister, and he's planning to propose. Until a journalistic scandal precipitates matters, and Jean has to face the realisation that Armand does not want to marry him.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Series: Fidelis et Fortis [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/525082
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Long Overdue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249863) by [stepantrofimovic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic). 



> This fic was started over 3 years ago, all the way back in spring 2017. The idea came when chatting to [Theonenamedafterahat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat) on Tumblr, and I owe bean a lot of the plot -- the political scandal and fundamental miscommunication was her idea, and so was all the information about marriage and respectability politics and UK Prime Ministers. Events in chapter 2 and 3, which I wrote in the past couple of months, are different from what we talked about at the time, although we were adamant that the bed scene at the start of chapter 3 needed to happen, and so it did. I hope I did all of this some justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on realism/plausibility:  
> (1) as will become very obvious soon, this fic was started pre-Boris Johnson; it continues to exist in a parallel universe where there was no Cameron government, no Brexit vote, and definitely no sentient haystack in power.  
> (2) I'm sure I took some liberties with how the tabloid press works. Any inaccuracies are my fault.

The first thought in Jean Treville’s mind as he slowly surfaces from sleep is, _I’m happy_.

It’s not even a proper thought, just the sluggish, sated, loose-limbed feeling of bliss that comes from waking up without an alarm, in a warm bed, with an equally warm body stretched out at his side. He can feel one of Armand’s hands resting on his hip. If he concentrates on it, he can map each individual finger, every single point of contact between Armand’s skin and his.

He loves Armand’s hands, so thin and graceful. He loves them even more when they’re touching his bare skin. It makes him feel at home.

His next thought is, _well, technically, I’m in Downing Street_.

That manages to rouse him from sleep a little more, but only a little. True, he’s in Downing Street. It’s the kind of thing that can happen when you’re in a committed relationship (and god, the thought sends a shiver down his spine all over again) with the British Prime Minister. The newly re-elected British Prime Minister, and by enough of a margin that Parliament will not be a constant nuisance, at least. The best part in all of this, honestly, is knowing that this godforsaken campaign has finally ended. Jean grins, moving to stretch as much as he can without running the risk of rousing Armand, who deserves all the rest he can get today.

As he catalogues the faint aches in his limbs, his grin grows wider. Results night had been long and stressful, but not so long and stressful that they were left with no time to celebrate in private. And, if Jean is honest with himself, the fact that they were planning to stay the night in Downing Street for the first time since they’d started this whole thing between them had added a certain… thrill to their late-night activities.

Of course, Armand had been living in his official residence at least as much as in his private one. Only, he’d always been very careful not to invite Jean for the night. Until yesterday. Yesterday had been a time for celebration.

Not that anyone seriously doubted that Richelieu would get a second term. Or, well. Jean had doubted, at times. More than frequently enough to make him unbelievably glad that campaign season was over. No more looking at that co-worker of his and wondering who she was going to vote for. No more snapping at his friends for criticising policies he would also have disagreed with at any other time.

Jean sighs. Most importantly, no more fretting over Armand’s stress levels (and his own) for a while. Well, apart from the usual business of ruling a country. And, over the next few weeks, getting a new government up and running.

It’s a good thing, he thinks, that Armand has staff for that. Very competent staff. Sometimes scarily so. The best.

Speaking of which. He’s dragged himself up on his elbows, stretching a little bit more. A glance towards the nightstand shows him that the ‘new message’ light on his phone is flashing.

A sideways lunge, a muffled groan (his back is not as flexible as he used to be, even if Jean still hasn’t heard Armand complain about his skills where it matters), a look back to check that Armand is still sleeping peacefully. He is. The sight of his grey curls, damp with sweat and plastered upon his forehead in wild disarray, brings a fond expression to Jean’s face.

 _Mine_ , he thinks, a tide of unbidden protectiveness rising in his chest. After all the years he spent thinking – no, _knowing_ that he’d never see Armand again, in person at least, his heart always skips a few beats every time he’s reminded that this beautiful human being can be – is _his_.

He hasn’t told Armand all of this. Not yet. He’s waiting for the right time.

He thinks about the ring hidden in his sock drawer. Cheesy, he knows, but still.

He’s waiting for the right time. This morning, at least, it feels like that time might be soon.

His eyes have slipped closed for a moment. When he opens them again, the blinking light from his phone is still staring at him. He presses the thumbprint unlock.

Milady never texts if she can help it, so, that’s a bit odd.

 _Good morning._ The uncustomary greeting, with everything it implies, drags a smirk out of Jean. _We’re having a meeting. Urgent. Call/text as soon as you’re both awake._ Yes, of course she texts with full stops.

As he turns to rouse Armand, Jean tries to avoid the ignore feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s sure it will turn out to be nothing, of course. The worst is past, in any case. They’re fine, they’re settled for the next five years. It’ll just be routine, some planning thing.

_Urgent._

***

Milady is sitting in front of the Prime Minister’s desk, her laptop open on her knees. Just as any other day. But she’s not typing today, just staring down at the screen, a pinched expression on her face. To see her in any state other than constantly, purposefully moving about is… unsettling.

Jean takes a deep breath. It _has to_ be nothing.

And yet, and yet. He’s mentally reviewing everything he did in the past few days, all his interactions. Was he too rude to that guy in Costa on Saturday? Did he let something slip at work that he shouldn’t have? And then, why should it matter now? They’ve _won_. They may have lost some of their majority since the last election, but they’ve won. Everything _has to_ be fine.

His uneasiness has been growing since he woke Armand up and saw his expression change after reading Milady’s text. Right now, he just needs to know what this is about, preferably soon.

He steals a glance sideways towards Armand, who looks impeccable in his suit, as usual. If it were any other day, Jean would already be looking forward to peeling him out of it come night. Assuming that Armand wasn’t busy, which of course happens way too often. Still. Jean is always allowed to fantasise, at least.

Armand, for his part, is looking at Milady. He tilts his head just so, in the wordless kind of communication that Jean has grown accustomed to witnessing when he and Milady are in the room, and that makes it transparent to everyone just how far Richelieu trusts his personal assistant-slash-spin doctor.

Milady’s lips grow thin. She turns the laptop towards them. A photo is blown up to full screen.

It’s a photo of Number 10, from the outside, at night. The bedroom windows, to be exact.

One of said windows is framing a half-lit silhouette of Jean, his crooked nose and cheekbone scar making him perfectly recognizable despite the dim light. He looks to be unbuttoning his shirt.

“Well, fuck,” he hisses, in the silence that follows.

Milady nods in agreement, a mirthless smile on her lips. “There’s more where that came from. Please, take a seat.”

Automatically, Jean circles the desk to sit beside her, while Armand sits – no, falls down in his chair on the other side. Neither of them dares to comment on the breach of proper protocol. Not that Milady cares that much about protocol, but she usually tries to uphold appearances. It makes her life easier, she says, having a script to follow for the sillier things. Things like not telling her superior to sit down. Well, it looks like priorities have changed for now.

“Who?” Armand asks, and he’s already got his Prime Minister mask on. Jean admires him for it, so much. As for himself, he feels like he hasn’t even managed to pick his jaw up from the floor yet.

“A Mr Aidan Donnelly, photographer for the _Daily Mail_. Security stopped him last night – or early this morning, depending on how you count. Either way, he had a full memory card.”

“Which they retrieved, I presume.”

Another cool smile from Milady. “Of course. You should also assume that the data was already backed up in cloud storage somewhere.”

The faint hiss of Armand’s breath escaping through his teeth is the only sign that he’s taken aback. Jean, for his part, finds himself speaking again before he’s even thought about it.

“They can’t publish this, can they?”

Milady’s sharp look at him is answer enough, but she still feels compelled to spell it out for his benefit. “Of course they can. They probably won’t be able to publish some of the more… interesting shots, not if they want to avoid a very messy lawsuit, but some of this is getting out.”

Jean cringes, trying to ignore the sting of tears behind his eyes. _Interesting_. He’s – there have been violations of privacy in the past few months, of course. His service records. His PTSD diagnosis and therapy history. Photos of him from about every possible time in his life, including kindergarten. Photos of his father he didn’t even know existed. Things that have pushed him to screaming fits of rage. But this – somehow, they’d managed to avoid _this_.

Until now, it seems.

Mindless of his reaction, Milady carries on. “In any case, this is more than enough.”

“Enough for what?” Jean asks, finding his voice again. Armand is keeping terrifyingly silent. He tries not to think about what that means.

“Do you know how long it’s been since the UK had a Prime Minister who wasn’t married, Treville?”

Her use of his name takes him aback, giving the advantage to Armand, who breaks the silence first. “1974. Ted Heath. Rumoured to be gay. In all likelihood, a paedophile.” His face betrays his disgust.

Milady nods. “You can probably figure out what it means, then, to have the newly elected Prime Minister bring his Oxford sweetheart to Downing Street for a night of strenuous, not to mention un-presidential, activities.”

She’s talking like the tabloids will, of course. Jean knows that. It doesn’t mean it’s less shameful, or that he feels less angry at her. It just means that he can’t even lash out at her, as much as he wants to.

( _Is this my fault_ , he wants to ask, but not her. _Are you angry at me. Do you want me to –_ )

He knows that Anne is probably pissed at them both right now, and rightfully so. They’re not making her life any easier, and that on top of all the stress from the campaign.

He takes a deep breath. He’s a responsible adult and he’s going to deal with this as befits a responsible adult. “I know it’s probably not what you want to hear right now,” he says, turning towards her, “but I would like to apologise. I –.”

Armand snaps before Milady can. “Don’t.”

Jean’s mouth shuts so fast his teeth hurt.

Milady blinks once, and that’s when Jean realises that she’s as taken aback by Armand’s reaction as he is. One second later, however, she’s already back on track. She leans forward in her seat, her fingers clacking against the keyboard again.

“There is, of course, a solution for this.” She pauses, tilting her head at Armand. “Or I wouldn’t have wasted my time calling the two of you here.”

 _The two of you_ , Jean thinks. It’s not just down to Armand’s political abilities, then.

***

Milady has a solution. It’s relatively straightforward, she says, but it will still require the close and committed collaboration of both of them.

It’s simple. It’s reasonable. The public won’t take well to an unmarried, gay Prime Minister bringing his boyfriend ( _god, the word makes Jean feel so stupidly angry, it’s so infantilising_ ) to Downing Street for a steamy night of victory sex. There is, however, a very real possibility that they will react differently to the Prime Minister celebrating with his _fiancé_.

In short, her solution is for them to announce their engagement. As soon as possible. Today.

As she lays out the details, plans for press statements and headline mock-ups quickly scrolling up on her screen, Jean finds himself going back to the one thing in this conversation he feels like he’ll never be able to forget. Because yes, he was looking at Armand’s face when Milady first mentioned the word ‘engagement.’ And yes, as his own heart skipped a beat, he saw Armand’s calm façade falter, if just for a moment.

Just for that moment, Armand looked utterly horrified at the concept.

He has no idea what Milady has been saying for the past couple of minutes, Jean realises. The entirety of his attention is consumed by Armand’s purposeful, straight-to-the-point questions. He knows this attitude, he’s seen it way too many times, both in the past weeks and in their Oxford days. For Armand, this has become a battle plan. It’s all about strategy now.

Jean has always enjoyed strategizing. But not now, not this. This is about his life, in a wildly different sense from how it had been in the Army. This is about Armand’s panicked look, making it quite obvious how much Armand does _not_ want to do this.

Jean has never wanted to ruin Armand’s life, not even when they’d split apart after Armand hurt him worse than anyone had ever had at the time. That is not going to change now, not because of a stupid gossip rag.

He clears his throat. “Perhaps,” he interrupts, cutting Milady off. (Her glare tells him just how little she appreciated that.) “Perhaps I should simply step back. We can do that, right? I’m sure your office can spin a story about that.”

He’s not looking at Armand as he says those words. He can’t bear to see his mask crack again.

He can’t bear to see the look of relief.

***

“Perhaps I should simply step back. We can do that, right? I’m sure your office can spin a story about that.”

Milady’s confused expression tells Armand that she hasn’t understood what Jean’s interruption means yet. Armand, on the other hand, oh, Armand has.

Jean’s words mean Armand’s lungs burning and his throat closing up to keep the bile down. It means abject terror the likes of which he’s never felt, not even fifteen minutes earlier, when Anne first mentioned the word ‘engagement.’

There is no way Armand’s reaction doesn’t show on his face, but Jean – Jean, of course, is not looking at him. He’s giving Armand that, at least. The mercy of not having to look into his eyes as he _asks_ if he can break up with him, rather than promise to marry him.

Jean has always been gentle with him. He was gentle last night, Armand finds himself remembering, and. And.

_Oh god please don’t do this to me._

Such a selfish thought. He can feel his cheeks burn in shame.

Milady is asking what the hell Jean is talking about, some distant part of his brain informs him. Jean, gentle steady benevolent Jean, is getting flustered. He expected her to understand without explanation.

Of course he did, Armand thinks. It’s so obvious. There is no reason why Jean would ever want to be engaged to him.

“He’s talking about a breakup.” Armand’s voice is calm. Decades of training for this. For his voice to sound steady as he says the words he hates the most.

He can see Jean startle at his interruption, but it’s only a moment before he nods. He’s still not looking at him.

He needs a drink, he thinks. He needs to drink enough that he can sleep through the day and not wake up until this is over. _Since when has he become such a coward?_

Milady’s voice rescues him from his thoughts once more. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not even –” She’s absolutely incensed, Armand realises, for the first time in this conversation. It’s a good look on her, if dangerous. “Do you even _understand_ how hard staging a breakup between the two of you would be?”

 _Staging a breakup_. Jean does not correct her. Armand wants to laugh.

“And the consequences? No. This won’t even start fixing our problem, not to mention the mess it would create. The Prime Minister’s sex scandal: he brings his lover to Downing Street only to dump him the morning after. I don’t know how I am even supposed to work with such utter fuckwits.”

It hurts, Armand thinks, and it’s not the entirely unprofessional insult. For some reason, the assumption that he would be the one breaking up with Jean is the thing that hurts the most in this whole scenario. Though maybe not more than the fact that Milady expects them both to be on board with this.

Anyway, she’s not finished. “No, we’re not even discussing this. We’re sticking with my plan. The plan my office and I put _hours_ of actual work into before the two of you even got out of bed this morning.”

He finds himself raising his hand. “I’d say that’s enough.”

It should be satisfying, he thinks, to see Milady pale a little, her lips hardening into a thin white line as she realises just how much she’s overstepped. It should be, but Armand only has eyes for Jean. Jean, who is looking at him again. Jean, who looks dismayed.

“Anne is right,” he hears himself saying. “We don’t have any alternatives right now. Down the line, we will hopefully be able to think of more options, but right now, we stick to her plan.” He motions for her to turn her laptop towards him again. “We should go over that press statement again.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jean nod, his own mask of grim determination slipping back on his face. As they go over everything, piece by piece, Armand does not as much as glance over at him again. He may feel like a coward, but he knows where his limits lie.

It would have hurt enough, to go through this not knowing whether Jean would have wanted to be engaged to him under normal circumstances. Thinking about getting through the next few weeks, months even, with the certainty that Jean does _not_ want this – Armand doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do that.


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t go with a press statement, of course. That would be utterly inappropriate, stealing the spotlight from the election results in any official way to steer it towards such a personal matter. No, the way to go is dropping the news in a celebratory interview, something to be organised with a host who will be sufficiently receptive to Milady’s instructions but also independent enough to make it look credible. In the end, it’s the same woman whose impertinent questions had such an important role in bringing them together.

The official version, of course, is that they decided to wait until after the election in order to avoid the news affecting the results. This sort of personal business, Armand hints coolly, has no place in the voting booth. In the post-election celebrations, on the other hand. He even manages to hint at the _Mail_ ’s upcoming story, painting it in such an unfavourable light without explicitly giving up that he knows about it.

He’s doing great, of course, Jean thinks, as he watches the broadcast from his flat. His flat that has somehow become another thing to worry about, since the lease is coming up in three months, and there will be decisions to make about that, about him moving in with Armand as befits their _current level of commitment_ in the public’s eyes.

Jean doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to spend his evening listening to Armand announcing what should be the best news in his life, all the while knowing that Armand’s smile is too tense, too perfect to be real. He is rather well acquainted with Armand’s real smiles, after all, and this, this charade for the public’s benefit, has nothing to do with them.

He sighs, and switches off the television as soon as the talk show ends. They didn’t even have to discuss whether they were going to meet tonight. The anxiety in Armand’s eyes had been so obvious, Jean had decided to spare him the question altogether.

It only takes half an hour before the bell rings. Of course, Jean was more than half expecting it, but that doesn’t stop the deep sigh that escapes him as he goes to open the door.

There’s Porthos holding little Marie, followed by Elodie carrying a bottle of what looks like champagne. Constance and d’Artagnan, with biscuits and chocolates. Aramis and Athos have been making themselves scarce more and more often lately, Aramis busy pursuing his latest fling and Athos dealing with a bout of misanthropy triggered, Treville managed to pry out of d’Artagnan, by the unexpected reappearance of an ex he’s apparently still harbouring feelings towards.

So that leaves the five of them, no doubt ready for a night of celebration Jean would gladly, oh-so-gladly go without. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t make an effort, just as they did, throwing this together on such short notice. They do, of course, want to know how and why they managed to keep everything secret, even from them. They want to know about the proposal, for fuck’s sake, a discussion from which Jean just barely manages to extricate himself, as Milady hasn’t given him instructions on which version to use just yet, and he can’t be sure one of his friends won’t let something slip to the wrong ears, and that it won’t end up all over the tabloids tomorrow.

One second later, he’s feeling horrified at himself for ever doubting his friends like that. Barely thirty-six hours, and this thing is already impacting him so hard.

As he puts on his bravest face and gracefully weathers everyone’s toasts – even Marie-Cessette’s, standing proudly with her flute glass of clear apple juice, talking about her _uncles_ , and god Jean wants the ground to swallow him _right now_ –, he thinks about Armand, about how much better he is at this sort of things. He wouldn’t mind his presence, his comfort right now, he finds himself thinking – they might be in a right mess, but apparently that isn’t going to change Jean’s feelings, and Armand has been his anchor for the past few months just as much as Jean has been his.

He excuses himself for a moment after that, going for a smoke out on the balcony. He doesn’t smoke that often, these days, but he’ll take what little comfort he can get, even if it’s the silly ritual of lighting the cigarette and holding it to his lips.

Porthos hardly gives him a minute before joining him, leaning against the railing on his left side, upwind from the smoke. “Are you all right?” he asks, and Jean wishes with all his might that he could just answer _no, I’m not_. Porthos has been there for enough of his breakdowns, after they were discharged, and Jean has been there for enough of his, that he trusts him to know what to do around him in a crisis.

That would be nice, he thinks, letting go in that way. And, of course, entirely unfair to Porthos, and Milady, and _Armand_ , who doesn’t deserve Jean making his friends think that he’s getting into this engagement just because of political considerations. Jean knows it’s not that, at least. Knowing Armand, he’s probably thinking about Jean’s reputation, of all things – in addition to the superior interests of party and country, of course. That’s the way it always goes, with Armand, after all.

“I’m fine,” Jean says instead. “Bit overwhelmed, but it’ll pass.” He hopes so, at least, because if an evening with his friends is this stressful, public appearances are going to be straight-up hellish. “Bit worried about Armand, too,” and yes, he can allow himself to admit this much, at least.

Porthos hums. “He _is_ a very private man.” Jean thinks he sounds unconvinced, but it might just be his paranoia talking.

***

“That,” Anne says, following Armand into his office, “was – I’m not going to say terrible, because you did just abouts sell it, so don’t start panicking on me, but it _was_ barely acceptable, and you know that better than I do.”

Armand lets himself sink into one of the armchairs with as much grace as he can muster, barely restraining himself from bringing his knees up against his chest. He will do that later, he thinks, after he’s finished going over next steps with Milady. Then he’ll lock the door and allow himself to be miserable for a while. Maybe listen to some music. He has a small hoard of playlists from all the time he used to feel mopey about Jean in the past couple of decades, after all, so might as well put them to use.

He chases that thought away for the moment, because it will make him even more melancholic, and Anne is perceptive enough about his mood as it is. Instead, he settles for a half-truth. “It’s not easy, lying about Jean.”

“I’ve noticed,” Milady grumbles, and he knows she’s still annoyed at him for all the complications he’s been bringing into her life for the past year or so, starting with that infamous interview when he decided to tell a TV audience of sixty-million potential voters about his long-lost gay love. It’s only fair, he thinks, for her to be a tad snappy around the subject.

“So, are we going to discuss our next set of moves, or are we going to improvise so you can be even more awful at it?”

He smiles at her customary relentlessness. He wouldn’t have hired her if she weren’t the best person for the position, after all, and poking him out of his black moods is a big part of the required skillset. “I owe you a treat after this,” he says. “Pick anything?”

She smiles, and it’s friendlier than her usual, letting him know just how much of a wreck he must look like. “I want a day off as soon as this is under control. No phone. Spa. Me plus a friend.” He should ask her about this – Milady does not have friends, nor does she normally want to see _people_ on a rare day off. As it is, however, he can barely spare the nervous energy for the rest of their meeting, so he settles for being content that this is so much more easily solved than the whole sorry mess with Jean.

***

“You can be thankful this is not the US,” D’Artagnan mentions at some point the following week, and oh dear, he’s more than right.

What he means is, at least Jean doesn’t have to worry too much about having to appear at public events, not yet, at least. There’s no expectations for him to be hovering behind Armand as he announces the new cabinet, or to pose for photoshoots. Still, Milady insists on at least one picture with the two of them and Larry the cat – everyone knows about Richelieu’s cats, although not many people know that the reason they are not moving to Downing Street any time soon is that Larry and them would tear each other apart, so cat pictures are always a good look.

The thing is, Larry does like Armand – which is unsurprising, as the man is the definition of a cat person –, but incredibly doesn’t mind Jean either. Jean, who has never had a cat – no money for that sort of thing when he was a kid, nor did they live rurally enough that they could have justified keeping a barn cat, and then there was Oxford, and the Army, and London and an endless series of ‘no pets’ rental agreements –, but who has been warming up to Armand’s cats more and more. Who has been putting quite a lot of effort into making them like him, in fact, in the hope that at some point he would get to move in with them for good. Who has treasured every single smile Armand has directed at him whenever he managed to coax Ludovic to play with him.

Jean, who now gets to sit and smile strainedly for a goddamn official cat photoshoot, all the while trying very hard not to think about Armand and living arrangements and moving in together.

Still, the problem with Jean’s brain is, the moment a thought has entered his mind it’s really hard to dislodge it unless he does something, anything, with it. Which is why he finds himself circling around the topic over dinner (just the two of them, for the first time in ten days, because post-election times are about as busy as pre-election times, Jean is finding out) so many times that he basically corners himself into asking the question.

“So. My lease is up in a few weeks.”

Armand doesn’t give him a deer-in-the-headlights look, he’s too well practised for that. He merely blinks, picks up a prawn with his ivory chopsticks, and hums. “And?” he prods him gently when Jean fails to continue.

The thing is, despite everything, some part of Jean was apparently still hoping that Armand would… who knows, offer, ask him, take some sort of initiative that’s not letting Milady write his fucking interviews, he guesses. It only makes Jean feel more stubbornly about all this. “I… We’re _officially engaged_ , after all, so –” and that does bring a shiver to Armand’s body, or maybe Jean has imagined that, and well, shit, this doesn’t feel good anymore – “I thought… shouldn’t I move in? With you? I’m sorry, I’m making a mess of this.”

Armand’s face goes through a complicated series of expressions that Jean can’t quite decipher before settling on a frown. “You’re not. You’re really not. Making a mess of this, I mean. You’re doing quite wonderfully, given the circumstances.”

Jean doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t even begin to know what it means, so he just waits.

“And yes, you may want to move in. But –” Armand’s chopsticks unearth another prawn, and really, that’s no way to eat Singapore noodles, has the man picked a single vegetable out of the plate they’re sharing – “I want you to know that you don’t have to.”

“I don’t see how I don’t, given – all this.”

Armand appears terribly busy chewing, for such a small bite. “What I’m trying to say,” he finally answers, “is that – well, keeping your own space may be – it may feel important.”

“Important for what exactly?”

Armand is looking at the tiled wall behind Jean, gesturing slightly the way he does when he’s trying to carry a point across in a debate. He’s presenting him with the evidence, Jean realises. “You have friends. They are not my friends, and they won’t enjoy coming to visit an official residence, to start with.”

“You have an unofficial residence,” Jean gestures at the very house they’re sitting in, “and it’s big enough that I could probably fit all my friends in here and you wouldn’t find them.” That’s petty, even more so given that they’ve already had their fair share of arguments around Jean’s perception of Armand’s wealth, but Armand seems prepared to let it slide with nothing more than a grimace.

“Hardly so. But they would be welcome, yes. There will still be security.”

“I can go visit my friends instead. And we can get them clearance. Some of them.” Porthos won’t be a problem, for sure, nor Elodie, who’s a doctor and by far the most respectable of the group, and D’Artagnan and Constance can probably make the cut quite easily as well. Athos and Aramis… Jean has given up on figuring out exactly what those two are doing with their lives, but he was their commanding officer, so it is his responsibility to know it’s neither illegal nor unsavoury.

Armand hums again. “Still,” he retorts. “You may want to keep some space for yourself.”

Jean is genuinely not getting it. He’s also frustrated, and tense, and wants to go back in time to fifteen minutes ago and never start this conversation in the first place.

“Space from what, exactly? I’ve lived in a one-room flat where the sink was in a cupboard, what do I need space for?”

He’s raised his voice, he realises, because Armand winces, and his throat sounds tight when he answers, “From me.”

***

“From me.” It has taken him spelling it out for Jean to finally understand, apparently, a circumstance Armand would find reassuring if he weren’t currently so beyond being reassured about this whole conversation. No, what he wants is to scream, and to kick Jean out of his kitchen for starting to – _negotiate_ about such a massive thing at the end of the worst week-and-a-half of Armand’s life. He also, irrationally but well in line with the recent past, wants to kick himself out of Jean’s life – pack up his things and go back to being alone and unwanted, since clearly he can’t do anything right when he’s wanted even a little.

Jean blinks, expressionless. That Jean, Jean who has the most mobile face Armand has ever seen, at least around him, can even look expressionless right now is just one of many signs that this conversation has gone so far up the wrong way there’s really no rescuing it.

“From… you? Armand, I’m asking to move in with you. I don’t want space from you.”

That Jean has finally said it feels both soothing and unfair. “You weren’t exactly asking to move in with me,” Armand retorts, and he hates how brittle he sounds, he hates how that fragility makes him petty.

And yet, Jean – Jean is fair, and pure, and everything that’s good in the world, and he’s not going to let Armand drag him into an argument, he’s too noble for that. “You’re right,” he says, after a pause. “I was not exactly asking. I handled this very poorly, and I’m sorry.”

_Fuck, Jean, no._ “I – it’s okay.”

“I’ve upset you.” Armand manages to muster a real, fond smile at that, and he can see how much it reassures Jean. Jean, who reaches out to take his hand, and Armand lets him, because how could he ever not let him. “Let me start this again. I would love to move in with you. If you’ll let me.”

Armand holds on to his smile with all he can, struggling to keep himself afloat, to avoid spiralling down the path his brain wants to take him – the path that says, _look at this man, look at what he’s doing for you, you never deserved him_. His breath rattles in his throat. “I would love for you to move in.”

“Then I’ll start looking up movers,” Jean nods, conversation clearly over in a way that satisfies him, Armand can tell, although he still looks tense and worried. Armand, for his part, does his best to relax his grip on Jean’s fingers, to avoid holding on too desperately. That would not be fair.


End file.
